Time-Travel Orgy: Fucked Silently by 18th Century Nobles

Fresh out of the shower in my creaky old apartment on Rue Sarasate, Paris. Alone with Mom, like that Aznavour song blasting in my head. ‘I live alone with Mom…’ Cracks me up every time. Water dripping, towel turban on my blonde hair, peignoir loose over wet skin. Mirror check: flawless. No blemishes, tits high and proud, no love handles. Kiss the glass. Weekend vodka haze with that redhead still lingers, pussy tingling at the memory.

Toothpaste foam, humming mangled Josephine. Doorbell rings. Dring dring. Who the fuck now? Insistent. Spit, rinse, slippers on – those goofy Taz ones from a gag gift. Peek through peephole: Robin Le Voisin. My neighbor. Real name Le Voisin. What a trip.

The Knock That Started It All

‘Lætitia! Come quick!’ He’s frantic. Peignoir barely tied, tits half spilling. ‘Can’t, I’m half-naked.’ He smirks. ‘Not the first time.’ Caught him spying? Heat rushes between legs. Fine, follow him to his place. Heart pounding – this guy’s got that geek-hot vibe I’ve eyed before.

Inside: some hologram freak in silver jumpsuit, mad scientist look, mutton chops, receding hair combed up. Cube smoking by the kitchen, plexi box bigger inside. Arthur Luth from 2125. Time machine glitch. Hologram him needs us to fix it. Bullshit or not, adrenaline spikes. My phone buzzes in pocket – Tinder match? Ignore. Urgency hits: whatever this is, it’s now or never.

We climb in. Tardis-style, huge console, seats. Touchscreen: menu, shutdown, backup, code. Lights pink, hum builds. Vibrates hard. Boom – we’re in a gilded palace room, Louis XIV vibes. Fifteen naked aristocrats fornicating everywhere. Wigs, powder, sweat and perfume stench hits like a wave. My peignoir clings damp.

Out we tumble. Marquis spots me: ‘Approach, courtesan, savor my proudly erect prick!’ They can’t hear me scream. Ghost mode? He grabs shoulders, forces me to knees, four paws. Cock shoves in mouth – thick, veiny, tasting salt and powder. No consent, but fuck, thrill surges. Vicomte behind: ‘Her ass tempts. Allow me to honor her cunt while she sucks your wick.’ Slams in raw. No rubber – syphilis risk? Whatever, pussy grips tight.

Timeless Raw Pounding

Sensations explode. Marquis throat-fucks, gagging me silent. Vicomte pounds steady, balls slapping. Wet squelch, my juices drip thighs. Robin? That bastard’s on a chaise, huge cock out – marks noon hard – Vicomtesse and Marquise slurping him double. Geek hides a monster. Jealous heat? Nah, this double stuffing’s mine.

Vicomte grunts: ‘Tease her rosebud.’ Fingers probe ass. No! But he lubes with spit, tiny prick but insistent. Burns entry, stretches ring. Full: mouth stuffed, pussy, ass invaded. Rocking rhythm, prostate-milking deep. Sweat beads, powder flakes off them onto my back. Phone vibrates again – reality ping? Ignored. Build coils vicious.

Orgasm crashes silent – feet in violet bouquet. They laugh: ‘The wench peaks!’ Vicomte agitates: ‘Make my cyclops sneeze!’ Pulses hot in ass. Marquis swells: ‘Velvet mouth!’ Floods throat, pulls for pussy bush defrizz – ropes splatter pubes. Drip down legs. They high-five vibes, strut off cocks swinging.

Grab Robin’s wrist. ‘Out!’ Back to console. Set 2020, Rue de la Grande Ourse, his salon. Turbulence shakes. Pop – home. Arthur solid now. ‘Bye, fuck off.’ Peignoir sticky, cum drying, pussy throbbing. Slam door. Shower two. Phone: Robin texts ‘Round two?’. Disappear into night – stranger again, craving next buzz.